Two Steps Onward

by Graeme Simsion

  Sarah hovered behind me, reading over my shoulder. How did she feel about her father’s public declaration that I was first in his life? He’d never really said it to me in private and I wondered if it was more a message for Sarah.

  ‘Are you going to do any more meditation sessions?’ she said.

  I stopped what I was doing. ‘Camille was interested in doing one later this evening. You’re welcome to join us.’

  ‘I’ve been using the app,’ said Sarah. ‘For mindfulness, not meditation. But I think it’s the meditation that’s working.’ She took a breath. ‘I’m sleeping better. And worrying less about shit. Exams and stuff.’ She laughed. ‘Which I don’t have any more.’

  ‘That’s great. But it may not just be the meditation. Getting clarity about what you’re looking for helps too. I think that was the message from your father. And the Chemin has its own magic: a lot of people walking it are looking for answers.’

  ‘Well, maybe a bit of everything. But I think the meditation has helped. I just wanted to say thanks.’ She leant in closer to my sketch. ‘Can I look?’

  Like she wasn’t already. I handed it over.

  Sarah examined it for a long time. To my surprise, there were tears in her eyes when she gave it back.

  ‘These are…incredible. I feel sorry for them,’ she said. ‘It’s all gone to shit and all they can do is…cling to the wreckage.’

  Until, I thought, a lifeboat comes along. And then you’ve got to let go, even if the lifeboat is only going to take you to somewhere different to start again.

  As I packed up, I noticed something. My sketch of Signor Antonio’s wife, trapped by the past, had Camille’s eyes.

  40

  MARTIN

  Our navigation guide divided the Chemin into regions. We’d knocked off Beaujolais and the French Alps, and now Piedmont. Next section: Liguria, though we’d been straddling the border between it and Piedmont for a few days already and there was a sense, particularly at the previous night’s hotel, that we were no longer in wealthy wine country.

  Camille and I had a preview, as we were booking three days ahead. It appeared that we’d celebrated the end of the mountains too soon: though the absolute altitudes in the Apennines were less than those of the Alps, there were substantial daily climbs and descents. They came with a set of familiar warnings: this was mountain country; weather could change rapidly; not for the unprepared walker. Reading between the French lines, the message was terrain not so hard, remoteness much worse.

  After Camille’s heat-stroke episode, I had to consider the possibility of a crisis in an isolated part of the mountains, in bad weather, with no phone signal. That said, we were a party of six, including two fit young people, with solid navigational support, in a developed country, and never more than fifteen kilometres—most of the time fewer—from habitation. It wasn’t the Tibetan Plateau. But it was real hiking, and I was looking forward to it.

  The first day of the Ligurian section was easy: just ten miles and four hundred metres of climbing, in farming country. The track took us across ridges where our three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views included the rolling rocky hills ahead of us; on the final descent, through woods and under the freeway, we were serenaded by church bells from the town below. Campo Ligure was the last substantial stop before we headed for the more remote hills.

  Our B&B host led each pair—deal with it: each couple—to apartments in different buildings. Zoe had gone to explore the town and I had my toolkit out, working on my karmic contribution, when Bernhard appeared.

  ‘We don’t know where to meet for dinner. Sarah thought I knew, and I thought Sarah knew…’

  ‘And you lost the argument about who’d sort it out. Better get used to it if you’re going to keep seeing Sarah. It’s the pizza place, at 7 p.m. I think it’s the only option, so you’d have found us.’

  I walked back to my maintenance project in the bathroom, and instead of leaving, Bernhard followed me.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘Trying to get this shower head to stay up.’

  ‘You need a pipe wrench.’

  ‘I know that. Just a tad heavy to carry in the bag.’

  ‘Can I use this?’ He picked up a thin file.

  ‘If you can fix it with that, you’re a better engineer than I am.’ Instead of tackling the problem, he walked out. A few minutes later, he was back with a pair of vice grips. ‘I think these will work.’

  ‘Where did you get them?’

  ‘There was a storeroom for the janitor. I used the file to spring the lock.’

  The tool worked, and the two of us had a shared moment of satisfaction as we tested the repair.

  ‘You were wrong,’ said Bernhard.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said, ‘but you didn’t exactly use the file…’

  ‘I meant about me being a better engineer than you. Obviously not. And now, it seems that will never happen.’

  ‘Plenty of time yet. When you get to my age you can start talking about it being too late.’

  Bernhard nodded. ‘And thank you for being so…tolerant… of me being friends with your daughter. I like her a lot.’

  41

  ZOE

  ‘Enjoy the pizza,’ said Martin. ‘Beyond here lies nothing.’ Campo Ligure was a real town, with a few restaurants, though tonight only the pizzeria was open—full and noisy. It was hard to believe we were on the edge of the wilderness.

  I’d always thought of Italy as…well, Italy…but I was learning that its regions were as dissimilar as Texas and Maine. I wondered if the others were as aware of the transition to a different place as I was. At Martin’s group-therapy-session-masquerading-as-design-class, I’d been conscious of a collective readiness to share more than we had before.

  ‘How’s everyone feeling?’ I asked.

  ‘Good. Easy day,’ said Gilbert. ‘And I am taking possibly the final opportunity to enjoy the wines of Piedmont. Just as I have become accustomed to the Nebbiolo grape, we are moving to another region. Liguria is famous for olives, not wine.’

  ‘Hungry,’ said Sarah. ‘How come the wine comes so fast and the pizza’s taking forever?’

  ‘So we will drink more wine,’ said Bernhard. ‘It’s deliberate.’

  Deep stuff. Not. I tried again: ‘We’re about halfway, right?’

  ‘Day thirty-four,’ said Martin. If we stick with the itinerary, it’s forty-odd to go.’

  ‘But maybe time to share Monsieur Chevalier’s benedictions?’

  ‘Aren’t they, like, wishes for the tooth fairy?’ said Sarah. ‘Share them and they won’t come true?’

  ‘We talked about ours all the way on the first camino,’ I said. ‘At the halfway point I was sure that they weren’t going to come true. He told me I’d get blisters and cry and be changed. Is that what he told you?’

  ‘Pass.’ Sarah. Naturally.

  Bernhard took her cue and shook his head, smiling.

  Gilbert frowned. ‘It’s possible he said that. But I remember he said that I would be set free. My doctor would hope I would be set free of drinking and eating too much…and the consequences.’

  Martin laughed. I guessed it was not so much at Gilbert’s gentle put-down of himself but at his being given the same message as us.

  ‘You, Zoe,’ said Camille. ‘What will you be set free from?’

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe political cartoons. I’m a lot happier doing pilgrims and hostel owners. I just wish I had a few more to talk to.’ Damn. Shouldn’t have said that.

  ‘And Martin?’ she asked, ignoring or not catching my reference to Grietje.

  ‘If he’s predicting I’ll lose my job…I’m not sure I’d call that being set free.’

  ‘Monsieur Chevalier,’ said Camille, ‘also told me I would be set free. Perhaps he was right to give us the same prophecy, since we have taken different things from it.’

  ‘What do you think you will be set free from, Camille?’ I regretted it as soon as I said it. She’d
said she had no hope of being set free of the disease and had already offered us something more profound. And then I realised that wouldn’t be her answer anyway. Everyone was looking at Gilbert. Shit, shit, shit. She hadn’t held back about their sex life.

  I jumped in. ‘Stupid question. I guess we’re all hoping—’

  Camille put her hand up to silence me. She was sitting beside Gilbert and took his hand. ‘Gilbert will get me to Rome. And a man who is even more spiritual than your Monsieur Chevalier will give me his benediction. And guidance. And possibly forgiveness.’

  42

  MARTIN

  ‘Only ten kilometres,’ I said to anyone who might be interested, ‘but up five hundred metres, so an average five-percent gradient. We’ll know we’re walking.’

  I did a little research before we set off each day. The guide I’d downloaded from the Association Chemins d’Assise gave me distance, net altitude gain as well as total climb (which was always more, because you descend and have to climb again), expected number of hours (which, combined with distance, gave you an idea of how tough it was going to be), along with directions and services along the way. The navigational information was sometimes patchy, and the GPS map coverage was not as comprehensive in Italy as it had been in France, but the rest was generally accurate. And, of course, I checked the weather forecast.

  The information was essential in planning and executing the day’s walk, down to whether to carry food and water, whether to take a break or push on to beat rain, and, if it came down to it, where to get help.

  With the exception of Bernhard, who used his phone for real-time information as he needed it, the others largely relied on me to know what we were doing, and I tended to hold a bit back until it was needed: ‘Only a couple of kilometres to go’; ‘We’ve done most of the climb’; ‘Drinks at the village on the hill.’

  ‘Control freak,’ Zoe had said on one occasion.

  ‘I’ll tell anybody anything if they ask. But they don’t. I think this works for everyone.’

  It made me notionally the leader, and I did feel that it was my responsibility to get everyone home safely. If I could do that every day, we’d make it to Rome.

  At ten kilometres, today was our equal-shortest day so far but not the easiest as we began our ascent into the Apennines. We were in dense fog that showed no signs of lifting: it felt like we were already in the clouds.

  Perhaps it was the short distance combined with moving into new territory, but everyone seemed in good spirits. We’d met a couple at breakfast whom we recognised from the pizzeria the previous night, and they had just finished a walk on the Alta Via dei Monti Liguri, a four-hundred-and-forty kilometre hiking track without any religious significance. The Chemin overlaid it for much of this Ligurian section, though it bypassed the higher peaks—something Gilbert in particular was happy with.

  We were almost at our destination when we encountered a quite large oratory—oratorio—beside the path. They were common in Italy, much as crucifixes had been on the French section, and my guide often noted them as landmarks. Camille tested the half-height metal gate: locked.

  ‘Will there be a church in the town?’ she asked.

  ‘You did the booking with me. There’s no town.’

  ‘I know that. This is why I am lighting my candle here.’

  She took her pack off and pulled out a candle. ‘I will have to leave it outside.’

  Without asking, Bernhard picked Camille up, slipped her through the space above the gate and let her find her feet on the other side. She was shrieking with laughter.

  Gilbert passed a lighter through and she lit the candle.

  Except Bernhard, typically, hadn’t thought about how to get her out.

  It wasn’t an easy problem to solve. In the end, I put both hands through the bars to create a stirrup, resting on my elbows, Bernhard and Sarah pulled her arms up, and we managed to lift her out. The candle was still burning, and she was still laughing.

  ‘Did you manage to remember a sin?’ Zoe asked.

  ‘I forgot everything. So I lit the candle for Sarah. For stealing her man.’

  Bernhard looked to Zoe. ‘Your turn.’

  Zoe looked at Sarah. ‘I’ll pass.’

  The cottage was a bit of a doll’s house—and the stamp in our credentials made it look even more so—set in a vegetable garden with chickens roaming around, pecking at the glass of our door. Beside the main dwelling, which housed our hosts, it looked miniature. Bernhard and I had to duck to get in and then to avoid the light fittings. Three bunks lined the walls, with the lower bunks doubling as seats.

  ‘It’s charming,’ Zoe said, and, to be fair, it was. Flowers in the flower box, baskets hanging too low from the ceiling and knickknacks wherever there was space. Just a wee bit twee.

  ‘And soon, warm.’ Bernhard was lighting the potbelly stove.

  Zoe smiled and I decided to go with the flow. ‘The perfect hostel? Right on the Chemin, little kitchen, camaraderie whether you want it or not.’

  ‘Except for one thing,’ said Gilbert, coming in with three bottles of wine and looking for somewhere to sit. ‘Signora says that we only ordered wine, no food. She speaks some French, so I am sure of this.’

  I checked Sarah’s expression in case it was another joke. No. It was three hours back to Campo Ligure. And we were all starving after a day on the track in the fog.

  Camille burst into tears. Gilbert put her arm around her, but she was not having it. ‘It’s my fault. I was the one speaking to her. I’m always forgetting things.’

  ‘Nothing in the cupboard,’ said Bernhard. ‘Just olive oil, vinegar and salt.’

  ‘Not the perfect gîte, then,’ Zoe said, presumably meaning that a perfect gîte would keep these staples on hand. But Camille performed the mental leap that was required to take it the wrong way.

  ‘I couldn’t be the cook. I would be useless, forgetting everything.’

  ‘Not everything,’ said Gilbert. ‘We have wine. If you forgot something, better the food. You have the noodles, Bernhard?’

  ‘Always, two packets.’

  Gilbert gave him the thumbs up. ‘If we were running the perfect gîte, Bernhard would be in charge of purchasing. He is the commerce man. So, we would be blaming him for this problem.’

  ‘I’ve got three peaches,’ I said. We’d have to go without them for tomorrow’s morning break.

  At that point our host knocked on the door and spoke in rapid Italian. Camille translated. ‘The farm next door sells cheese. It’s two hundred metres.’

  More Italian. ‘We can have tomatoes and peppers and herbs from the garden. Also, eggs from the chickens.’

  ‘Roast chicken sounds good,’ I said, and enjoyed Zoe’s brief look of horror.

  Camille had stopped crying, but I could see her mistake had shaken her. It was as if, for the first time, she’d realised what her disease would mean.

  43

  ZOE

  Bernhard and Sarah did the cheese run. The fresh mozzarella, served with tomatoes and basil from the garden, was the best I’d ever had. Camille whipped up a Spanish omelette, and we finished with meringue, fresh peaches and farm-store cream.

  ‘A toast to the chef,’ I said. And almost cried at the vulnerability Camille showed as she blinked back tears. Gilbert gave us both hugs.

  Bernhard beamed. ‘All this is normal.’

  ‘How so?’ said Martin.

  ‘Teams are not easy: there are predictable stages. First we form—Camille has the concept of the walk; Gilbert recruits Zoe; Zoe brings me and Martin, who brings Sarah. Then we norm—get to know each other, our strengths and limitations.’

  ‘And then we storm, right?’ Martin interjected.

  ‘We blow hard in different directions.’

  Martin laughed. Which was nice, because I was expecting him to put Bernhard down.

  ‘And now,’ said Bernhard, ‘we are beginning to perform.’

  He sat back. I guessed that after Martin’s creat
ivity talk, he’d needed his moment in the spotlight. Men and their constant need for affirmation!

  ‘You were happy with the cooking?’ said Camille.

  ‘Always,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Because I have made a decision. About what to do with my life. What remains of it.’

  ‘I thought you were going to wait till you saw the Pope,’ I said.

  ‘You have your Monsieur Chevalier, and I will have the Pope. But there is a higher power. In the chapel, today, I discovered what I was to do.’

  I blurted it out. ‘In the chapel?’ I was thinking of Bernhard lifting her, her flirting and laughing and forgetting even who she was lighting the candle for. It didn’t seem like she’d been receiving a divine revelation.

  ‘This morning, before we began.’

  ‘Sorry, I was thinking of the oratoire.’

  Camille laughed. ‘I was full of joy because I had my answer.’

  I looked to Gilbert. This was news to him too. We waited.

  ‘The idea was in my mind after I talked with Grietje. You remember Grietje, from Belgium?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Bernhard.

  ‘And all of you have helped me too. Sarah has kept me well, meditation has helped me to think, Martin showed me what was important, and everyone talking of…I am going to open the perfect hostel. I will cook, and I will be there for pilgrims like Grietje who are taking a spiritual journey—to give them guidance.’

  44

  MARTIN

  We were in a different place. Even crossing the dam wall out of Capanne di Marcarolo there was a sense of remoteness: nobody about. Then, narrow tracks, panoramic vistas that came and went as the track wound its way through the hills, and, for the second day, fog. At the top of a hill we found a memorial to a World War II battle, its positioning a contrast to the prominent monuments to les morts in the centre of every French village.

  A little way past the peak, sheltered from the wind, I stopped and reached for Zoe’s hand. We stood in silence for a minute or two, just listening, taking in the forest.